When Our Hearts Were Made Strong
by Tj Barci
Summary: There was a time where a country was only as strong as their colonies. They played a role in mercantilism & imperialism but the only reason they were ever mentioned was for wars, slaves, and money. What of their feelings? What about their proctors?


"You're looking 'appy today, Britain," remarked France over his glass of red wine.

Britain looked up to see a smirk spread across his friend's face. _More like an enemy, _he thought. _I hate having to keep a pretty facade. _"I don't approve of your sarcasm in this situation."

"And what, you weren't peachy in the Suez Canal Crisis? I think it's only fair."

"Just keep your commentary to yourself. Go revel in it with someone else if you want to. I don't want to hear it."

"Alright Mr. Gentleman. You 'ave fun being alone now."

As soon as France had left the room, wine glass dangling casually from his pinky and thumb, Britain threw a dart at the mahogany door.

"You no good, rotten git! I'll tell you who was peachy, I will!" He stood and plucked the dart out, examining the nick it had made in the wood. "I want the Sudan. You stupid, stupid idiot..."

Britain longed to be younger. He longed to be a captain out on the high seas again, slicing enemies with his sword. But no, he was a gentleman with gentlemanly obligations. And apparently those obligations meant poking his nose into the affairs of dirty, uncivilised people. They needed to know not to be throwing their bodies around, they needed to not be disease-ridden, they needed to worship one God... It just went on and on. Even America had been easier to manage!

Maybe if he only had a small one, it would have been fine. They'd be a perfectly good lot then, easy to manage. However, he couldn't just have one. His survival as an industrialised country hinged upon them.

"That's it. I _will _get the Sudan, and I _will _get it post-haste!" Britain cried to the empty room.

* * *

"The dam at Aswan will become a reality, just you see," were the words soon whispered on the lips of government officials and other well-to-dos. They looked forward to having another colony. It meant security, and perhaps new servants.

Only, Britain's excitement quelled when rebellion broke out. An idiot nearly calling himself God, Muhammad Ahmad bin Abd Allah, lead them.

_The Guided One my foot. The only thing he's guided in is stupidity._

He had to act now. Belgium, as innocent as she looked, wanted the Nile as much as he did. She was spunky and would steal it right from underneath his nose. And his old friend France desired its crystal waters, too. This little uprising was a perfect chance to snatch his territory from him. Said claim was weakened so that it was a golden door of opportunity to his European rivals.

He imagined Belgium sticking her hand on her hip and poking her haughty little tongue out at him, or France winking at him, and he clenched his teeth; he longed to slit their smooth-skinned throats.

Upon crunching into an extremely hard croissant, Britain made a decision. He rubbed his fingers together, self-righteousness making his pink lips spread into a delightful little smirk. At this moment, only he knew of his plan; and he reveled in it.

* * *

"Kitchener, I trust you to win this territory for your country," Britain said, though he was saying it mostly to the arid land in front of him, his eyes full of dust. Dressed in drab light brown canvas clothing, complete with pants that puffed above the boots and an outrageously large safari hat, he was ready to win. His fellow countrymen didn't think he looked it though, of course. They were reminded of a silly aristocrat marveling at every movement he sensed on the savanna.

"Yessir, I'm ready."

"Good. Now, where's that canteen?"

"In the tent, sir."

Britain took a swig and toasted to himself victory before they moved out to crush the successor's forces. It was an interesting lot that Britain found himself looking out over: Egyptians, Sudanese, and English. These men would be fighting the Battle of Omdurman at the expense of, to some, a far off island to the north with a frosty demeanor. He saluted them as the sun finally broke from the sand, and the chaos began not soon after six.

The British side was far superior though they were smaller. Strict and regimented with their advanced weaponry, they mowed down Ansar like they were shooting cans off a fence with machine guns. However, their advantage could easily be the death of them. The Ansar saw their weakness and were retreating as Italians do.

Though a hundred feet from Kitchener, Britain felt his unease. _Let them take back Omdurman at full force, and we're doomed._

However, within a day of bloodshed, the enemy was presumably crushed. Britain cracked a smile at Kitchener, whom was also beaming. "You're a good leader, Kitchener. I think you'll go far in your career as a military commander, if I do say."

"Really?"

"Yes, son. I don't lie on things like that. A big ego on false statements can ruin a boy."

* * *

The Africans were always a rowdy sort, so of course there were more conflicts. It irked Britain, but it was the kind of annoyance that perhaps equaled out a fly on his arm. He was going to get the Sudan, and that was that.

But what he hadn't been counting on was his old rival France nudging his way back in. They had been camped out comfortably, and recently British and French forces met on somesuch river (he didn't really care what the name was) and now their plans for expansion were blown wide open for the world to see.

Britain couldn't look at France without shouting of his neighbour's idiocy, "your-fault-your-fault", and turning a shade of pink or purple; France couldn't lay eyes on Britain without crying about his dignity and social taboos.

"Expansionist!"

"Greedy pig!"

"Please, do calm down, you two..."

"I cannot! Zat egotistic man zhere has made my citizens feel disgraced!"

"I will not give in when _he _is involved. Me, the great British Empire, give into a fight with _that _sissy? I think not!"

And so preparations for war were afoot.

However, France's nationalism and haughty attitude was no match for Britain's arms, and Germany's presence loomed over him like a great ominous shadow, threatening to crush him back into humiliation.

A positively evil little smirk remained plastered on Britain's face weeks after the incident.

Britain accepted the idea of governing the Sudan together with Egypt, though Britain had to appoint the ruler. "Not fair," Egypt murmured one day, much to the surprise of his new caretaker. He rarely spoke. His vocal partner in crime, Sudan, piped up more often. So often, in fact, that Britain's ears wore raw if he stayed too long in his presence.

"That's what I've been saying for months! And you just say it now, Gupta? I swear, I'm in a pen of idiots and I'm doomed to die there," Britain's translator mouthed quickly seconds after Anai finished.

Britain laughed, visibly amused. "I find it fair. I have the ability."

"The ability? You just think you are better!"

"No, don't be hasty. You have never seen the world outside, and never my massive fleet of ships or advanced weaponry. At any moment I could call upon you to be killed, Anai."

Anai's eyebrows cinched together in a firm line and he once again opened his mouth as if it were a broken hinge. "With all due respect, you have never _let _me out to see it since I have thought of seeing it. With knowledge I could be better than you!"

Britain raised his hand to strike the young boy, but ended up swooping it back towards his side in the same motion. He was intrigued by the notion he had thought of. It was a grown-up idea, and a dangerous one. There Anai stood shivering in terror, but he was already thinking of his proctor's undoing. Compared to his other colonies there was nothing for Britain to take from Anai, but the momentary amusement was enough.

Someday Anai would be grown, and when he was, he would be trouble. But for now he was a tan-skinned little boy with determined little brown eyes that could only remain rough for a fixed amount of time. Britain made to rub his head, for there was no hair on it.

Britain exited with a gallant sweep of his coattails, leaving his colonies in his wake. There was a steamship waiting to take him through the Mediterranean, and he planned to visit his acquaintances as he sailed through its fertile waters back to his isles. Upon his short walk to the dock, he was hit with the scent of salt and sea. A wave of nostalgia washed over him, and he smiled warmly for the first time in months in the eyes of the public, and a public composed of heathens no less.

In a world of enemies, the sea was his only long-time friend. Though many colours, she remained unchanging and remarkably vicious to her captors.

His cargo already loaded, Britain placed a polished shoe on the dock. So distracted was he by taking in his ship that he didn't notice that Anai had followed him on.

"I-is dis da big'a boat?"

"Only one of them, Anai," Britain replied slowly, noticing with a mix of frustration and fright that his translator had disappeared for the moment.

"Where is da odas?" Anai seemed a little afraid of the crew, but not the goings on down below him. There were beggars, trumpeters, and prostitutes far below the deck, loudly preaching their services. Britain's emeralds roved over them not for a moment with disgust.

"They are all over the world, in many ports. Now Anai, you should be getting home."

The little boy ignored him, too excited by the prospect of other worlds. Were there other deserts? Were there rainy places? Big cities? All his questions were gently answered in Britain's practised manner. His voice became sickly honeyed and enthusiastic, so sweet that its bitterness was masked. He used it with his colonies, peers, and officials, but it only ever worked for children.

"I want'a go to da oda places wid you, Mista Englan'!" Anai smiled at him in that way only children can. It was genuinely hopeful, any past hatefulness forgotten.

Britain's mouth ran dry, and a horrid cold feeling filled his stomach. Perhaps he knew all along what feeling it was, but through his instinctual politeness, he knew not its real taste until Anai's lips were twisted with disappointment.

"But Anai, you can come another time when it is not a business meeting. That is not any fun for you, right?"

Anai remained quiet, only glancing up to shoot Britain a look that made him bite his tongue, both with his incisors and his better judgment. He was about to leave for his office, anywhere, when Gupta walked aboard.

Britain's two underlings exchanged looks, Gupta's knowing and Anai's a shade of accepting indignation.

"Are you taking him home?" A nod. "Very good." Britain turned halfway but was caught by Gupta's hand. "Yes?"

"This is not fair at all. One day this boy will suffer greatly, and it will all lead back to you and your family's meddling. I hope you know what you are doing."

"And I hope you understand that with firm rearing and care, nothing bad will occur. America turned out much better than I ever expected."

"America is smarter. He is in a better part of the world. Now, Mr. England." With a nod, he began to disappear like a mirage into the throng of people onto the dock.

Britain felt a rise of confusion, frustration, and fear in his chest, and against every gentlemanly teaching, he suddenly let out a cry. A dozen heads below him turned.

"The sun never sets on the British empire!" Then, to himself, "Never, never, never. Anywhere on the earth, no matter where the sun touches, my influence reigns supreme. I'll have them all yet."


End file.
